


A Morning to Forget

by tsurai



Series: Witcher tumblr prompts [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, Light Masochism, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post A Night to Remember (trailer), Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Strength Kink, Tumblr Prompt, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-03-01 06:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai
Summary: snowminxfrostycat asked: #20 "I need you to wake up because I can't do this without you."With his paperwhite face marbled in black veins, the witcher looks mere inches from death. There’s too much blood on the ground, the acid fumes already making Regis dizzy and sick with fear.And there’s Orianna, her skin peppered with silver shards and missing an arm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snow_Minx18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snow_Minx18/gifts).



> [Based off of this Witcher 3 Trailer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehjJ614QfeM)

He can smell them both from a mile away. He flies as fast as his mist form will allow, all while the litany of _nononono_ plays endlessly in his head. The sun is just starting to peek above the horizon when Regis arrives at the dilapidated barn and two bodies come into sight.

Regis solidifies already cursing, darting lightning-fast to the witcher’s side and dropping to his knees.

The blood he smelled in the air hits his nose full-force, but for once Regis feels no temptation; the acrid scent of a witcher brew reeks in every drop. Geralt lies still in the mud, his poisoned blood seeping from a vicious bite wound on his neck as his heart beats far, far too slowly.

“Geralt,” he calls, desperate as he places both hands on the witcher’s face, “Geralt, wake up!” He receives no response other than a weak flutter in the man’s heartbeat, a stutter in his already shallow breathing. With his paperwhite face marbled in black veins, the witcher looks mere inches from death. There’s too much blood on the ground, the acid fumes already making Regis dizzy and sick with fear.

And there’s Orianna, her skin peppered with silver shards and missing an arm.

Regis knew, he _knew_ Geralt wouldn’t forget what he’d witnessed at Orianna’s orphanage, but he’d hoped to have more time to talk the witcher down, to convince him not to pursue her in the name of the children she’d hurt. But he knew now that hope was foolish; Geralt was stubborn to a fault, but also dedicated to his own brand of justice from which he never swayed. It was one of the many reasons Regis had come to love him.

He wrenches himself away from those thoughts, turning back to the witcher. He has no need to take Geralt’s pulse when every thready heartbeat tolls a death knell in Regis’ ears. Claws slice into Geralt’s potions pouch with no regard to the leather, scattering vials across the ground. _Cat, Maribor, Full Moon;_ he picks them up and discards the potions frantically, searching for what he needs. Finally, Regis seizes on the bottle of White Honey and, wasting no time, reaches for the back of Geralt’s head. He uses one hand to tilt the man’s chin up and the other to uncork and pour the potion down Geralt’s throat.

The witcher chokes, breath hitching, but Regis runs a hand over his throat until his swallowing reflex kicks in. _Please let it not be too late,_ he prays to some unknown power. Any god that deigns to help can have his allegiance as long as this works.

For a long moment, nothing changes, and Regis feels himself sink into a pit of despair.

Then he notices the lines on his face gradually begin to lighten, though the sallow quality of Geralt’s skin refuses to go away. A thought to the blood loss has him searching for another vial; thankfully Geralt thought to bring more than one vial of Swallow on this foolish quest.

“When you wake, we are going to have words about how moronic you are, to do this...” he murmurs as he forces Geralt to accept the potion. _To do this without me_ , his mind finishes.

As if summoned by the thought, Orianna’s body shudders. Regis’ head whips up, and even as he watches the silver bolt embedded in her side starts to slowly push out, until it falls away from her body completely. The Black Blood Geralt brewed must have been incredibly potent, to rot her so badly and keep her down for so long. But already her regeneration is starting to kick in. It won’t be long before her skin and eyes start to fill in again, her wounds to close.

And then she will bring the full force of her fury down on the one who caused her so much pain and the humiliation of death, no matter how temporary.

Regis pauses, torn.

Next to him, Geralt gasps, moans as the Swallow works its way through him, closing his wounds. Regis squeezes his eyes shut and bends down, pressing a soft kiss to the witcher’s forehead. The blood seeping from his neck is starting to smell enticing again – he’ll need to bandage the wound before the witcher can be moved, and- no, he is only distracting himself.

Geralt already saved Regis from this choice once. But it seems he will be damned either way, all for this man. “I need you to wake, love. I can’t do this without you,” he murmurs against Geralt’s clammy skin. With one stroke of his fingers through white, grimy locks, he stands and turns to Orianna.

When he has done what he needs to, hands coated in yet more poison blood, Regis tends to the witcher.

They will have much to discuss.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt wakes, lucid enough to pull himself out of bed but not enough to quite know how he got there. His head spins, stomach cramping, and he barely makes it to the chamber pot in the corner before he collapses. He heaves but little more comes out than stomach acid. 

All the sudden movement sends pain shooting through him and Geralt gasps, clapping a hand to his neck before he realizes that may be a bad idea. 

The jolt of agony sends darkness flashing over his vision, and the last thing he sees before sinking into the black is a pair of familiar hands reaching out to catch him.

* * *

 

Regis can’t help his impatience as he waits for the witcher to wake. He paces across the room and back, ears cocked for any little change of breath.

He sighs in deep relief as Geralt’s heart signals his rise back to consciousness.

“Good morning, my friend,” he says as he strides to Geralt’s bedside, ready to force him back down if necessary. 

The witcher grunts, blinking up at him but not yet attempting to move. “What happened?”

“I thought you would retain your faculties well enough to know better than to strain yourself, but instead you fainted...straight into my arms. I do understand if you’ve felt neglected lately, but you need not have gone to such extremes as your… confrontation with Orianna.” The bitter words fall unchecked from his tongue, but despite great effort he cannot stem the tide. 

His friend’s face scrunches in confusion for a long moment before relaxing into dismay. “Regis, I-”

“No,” he interrupts. “No, forgive me Geralt, it is not my place to scold you about this. You cannot help your natural drive to correct injustice, and I should have seen this coming. It is simply, I…” As his momentum peters out, Regis fights not to curl into himself. His breath shudders, voice cracks. “I almost lost you.” He is not one given to hysterics, but Regis feels one breath away from a sob when Geralt reaches for his hand and stops Regis’ breathing entirely. He grips back, all but collapsing to sit next to the prone man. 

Geralt’s voice is ragged as he gasps out, “I’m sorry,” but Regis only shakes his head and, very deliberately, places a kiss on the back of the witcher’s hand. 

They both fall quiet as Geralt stares at him, a slow realization washing over his face, and Regis holds fast even as Geralt’s muscle weakness turns into a tremor.

“You- you can’t-” he rasps. Regis presses Geralt’s hand between both of his, wishing now he’d thought to take off his gloves.

“Can’t what? Love you? You know I am not a man of whimsy, and I have carried my heart in your name for longer than I’d care to admit.” Regis doesn’t notice his vampiric slip of the tongue until Geralt blinks at the turn of phrase. He pushes on, desperate to get all the words out before the witcher can sidetrack him. “You need not return my regard, of course, but at this point I couldn’t bear it if I hadn’t told you-”

“Regis- Regis, come here.” And both Geralt’s hands yank him forward as the witcher leans toward him, coming in at the wrong angle and mashing their noses together painfully. Geralt barely grunts in acknowledgement, just turns his head and – finally – brings their mouths together. 

Regis groans aloud at that hot burst of life against his lips, even if it’s poisoned and bloody. His hands fly to the back of Geralt’s neck, cupping his skull oh-so-carefully. He kisses back, no more gently, trying to get as close as possible to the open heat of his mouth. They only break apart only when Geralt needs to breathe. He ducks his head into the crook of Regis’ neck, gasping hard.

“I had… a backup plan. Equipment in my bag with Roach.” 

Shuddering from hot breath against his skin, Regis nods, not asking about the items – he can picture bone saws and jars lined with silver well enough without a concrete description. “I sent one of your hands to fetch her. She should be back and settled in the stable by now.”

“Good, ‘m glad,” he murmurs, the last syllable mashed against the thin skin of Regis’ vulnerable carotid artery, where Geralt can no doubt feel his pulse begin to speed. He runs his fingers through snowy-white hair, gently detangling the knots whenever he encounters them. Geralt leans heavy into him, his hand a weight on Regis’ knee that he becomes viscerally aware of when the touch moves further up his thigh.

Anything he might say in response is interrupted by the audible growl of Geralt’s stomach. He huffs a laugh into Geralt’s ear when the witcher grumbles. 

“Come, no doubt Marlene will be eager to feed you, now that you’re awake. Do you wish to make your way to the dining room, or shall I bring your meal here?”

Regretfully, Geralt straightens, pulling away. “Can get food my damn self,” he mutters, moving to swing his legs over the bedside. He stands slowly, even as Regis tenses, ready to catch him again should he fall. Geralt shoots him a triumphant look even as he makes his way, albeit unsteadily, to the door.

“Always so stubborn, my love,” Regis says, voice catching on the sudden surge of relief and fondness he feels seeing Geralt on his own two feet again.

Geralt doesn’t respond as he makes to leave, but Regis smiles, teeth exposed, at the reddening of his ears as the man turns away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @merulanoir for the beta! Please refer to new tags.

Their meal is fraught with tension, and as soon as Geralt swallows the last bite Regis is around the table, far closer than is socially acceptable. Marlene, just turning into the room to pick up their dishes, snorts at them and spins on her heel to go back into the kitchen. They both ignore her.

Regis’ eyes are so black, even this close Geralt can barely discern where iris ends and pupil begins. 

“Keep looking at me like that and we won’t make it to the bed.”

Regis chuckles, breaking out of his fixation. “It is just that you’re beautiful,” he murmurs. 

Geralt blinks, taken aback. _Beautiful_ isn’t a word he’s ever heard applied to him before. When he was younger he might have bordered on it, if he’d been around the sort of people who’d refer to men as beautiful.

Now his body is a mass of scars and other marks of hard life – including the new patch where Orianna tried to rip out his throat – and the lingering effects of the Black Blood showing in the stark contrast of his ribs against the skin and in the hollow of his cheeks. Geralt is far too aware of these flaws, even hidden by the cotton undershirt.

He swallows, tilting his head until the vulnerable line of his throat lies flat against Regis’ chest and he can look directly up at the man. The look in his face then is no longer just heat, but something closer to warm, almost gentle. Regis places a soft hand on the back of his neck and all of Geralt pulses, feels too full, from his heart and eyes to his half-hard cock. 

The witcher closes his eyes and leans into it, trusting. His neck aches sharply, but after another of Regis' tinctures, it's not too painful to ignore in favor of the comfort inherent in this moment. 

“Take me to bed, Regis.”

* * *

Regis makes it to the bed first, naked and unashamed as he tugs Geralt by the hips to remove the last of his smallclothes. Geralt can’t get enough of the vampire’s hands on him and soon he bends, pressing kiss after heated kiss to Regis' welcoming mouth. He tastes more like their recent meal than anything else, but Geralt’s beyond giving a fuck about anything but the brush of his thin lips and tickle of facial hair. 

When he finally pulls back for air, the black of Regis’ eyes have bled into his irises like ink dropped in a pool, his chest heaving under Geralt's hand as the witcher leans part of his weight on him, and the jut of his arousal all too clear, flushed a dusky rose already. 

He shoves at Regis’ shoulders and the vampire lets him, smiling sharply as he lays back against the duvet.

Geralt takes him in; the light dust of hair over his chest and groin, his narrow hips, the darker skin around his cock. The sight quickly becomes too much to resist and he leans forward, pressing his face into Regis’ stomach with a deep inhale before he mouths at the skin, rasping the growth of his beard against softer hair. 

His lover makes a pleased noise, obviously sensitive as Geralt reaches up to skate his fingertips down over his chest, letting his callouses drag a trail straight to Regis’ cock.

He moves down while Regis is distracted by his hand, expression tipping into a gratified smile when a curse comes from over his head and fingers burrow into his hair as he licks a slow stripe from base to tip. He isn’t pulled away, so Geralt takes it as permission to take the warm weight into his mouth, working as deeply as he can go. He pulls back and tries again, a little deeper this time, and runs his free hand up the side of Regis’ thigh. Up and down, relishing the jerk of muscle under his fingers as he sucks, creating a pressure both sudden and intense. 

The sound Regis releases then is so low as to be more felt than heard, a deep rumble like Geralt hasn't encountered before. When he looks up, Regis sits propped on one elbow, staring at him with that same heat and softness from the dining room.

“Geralt, my dear,” he breathes, so quietly that the witcher can barely hear it. The fingers wound through his hair attempt to tug him up and toward Regis' face. “Come here, come here and kiss me.” 

It’s a plea, not a demand, not yet. 

But some teasing impulse keeps him where he is, unmoving but to stroke Regis' shaft where his lips can’t cover. The way Regis’ mouth drops open as he gasps sends a bolt of pleasure shooting through Geralt, pooling in his groin. Without really thinking about it, Geralt's hand drops from Regis’ thigh to gather the precome at the tip of his own dick and stroke himself once, hard.

If pressed later, Geralt wouldn’t be able to quite name the sequence of events that follow, just that it ends with Geralt flat on his back on the bed, wrists pinned above his head by only a fraction of Regis’ strength present in a single hand. 

The other hand presses gentle claws underneath his chin. From anyone else the gesture would be a threat, but here Geralt can only oblige, angling his mouth into a kiss. Regis’ fangs can be felt even through his lips and, feeling daring, Geralt presses his tongue into the vampire’s mouth and licks along one sharp tip. 

The warning rumble Regis gives rattles his head a little. Fingers tighten against his face, the sharpest tips slicing through his skin like butter. Geralt hisses but only presses into him, trying to elicit more reaction. 

Regis pulls back then, spitting a curse in a language that Geralt doesn’t know and doesn’t care to find out – his focus turns entirely to the weight of Regis’ bare ass and thighs now pressing down on his cock. When he pushes against the grip Regis has on his wrists the vampire lets him go, lets Geralt settle his hands against Regis’ thighs and skim along firm muscle. 

He looks debauched, perched on top of Geralt with those black eyes fixed on him, on the drops of blood at Geralt’s chin. When his expression starts to curl into something sour – almost fearful – Geralt uses his distraction to press down on the vampire’s thighs and rock up into him, slow and intent. Regis’ gaze immediately snaps back to his, bright and eerie. 

Then the vampire shifts up onto his knees, making Geralt hiss, slightly panicked that Regis has changed his mind, is going to leave–

Regis’ hand on him distracts him immediately, a gentle thumb spreading precome around and pressing into the slit, making Geralt realize how very close he is to orgasm already. He gasps when the vampire strokes him, fighting against the tension in his gut. He shouldn’t be so worked up so quickly, this isn’t normal for him – his stamina is a point of pride, damn it.

Regis picks up one of Geralt’s clenched hands, presses a kiss to the knuckles as he did earlier during that mind-boggling, world-upending love confession, and Geralt loses his trail of thought as he’s reminded of how much he _wants_. Wants this, wants him, wants everything this man will give him and more.

And Regis moves, hovering as he continues stroking with one hand until Geralt is lined up with a hole he can’t see from this angle. 

“Regis–” he starts, anxious, but the vampire ignores him; shifts with Geralt’s cock in one hand before sinking down onto it. The too-thin coat of precome is a blessing, creating friction rough enough to stop him from coming immediately. 

Any other man would be cringing with pain due to lack of preparation, but Regis’ eyes have gone half-lidded with bliss even as he refuses to break Geralt’s gaze. 

 _Fucking vampires_ , Geralt manages to think, before Regis lifts his hips and sinks down again, this time all the way down to the base. It’s too much; the heat and pressure is so damn _good_ and Regis drops Geralt’s hand, lets the witcher grasp at his hips again as he starts fucking himself on Geralt’s cock. 

He will deny until his dying day the whimper that escapes his throat. But then Regis grins at him, every sharp tooth on display, and does something that doubles that sweet, clenching heat all around him.

Geralt thrashes – moans – trying to speed their pace, trying to push his hips up, but Regis’ grip is implacable as he pins him down and rides him in a steady, far-too-slow rhythm guaranteed to drive Geralt out of his mind. He wants, _needs_ more and needs it now. There's a pressure building in the base of his spine and behind his eyes that he knows will abate if Regis, the tease, would just _let him_.

Geralt seizes the back of both thighs as Regis rises and tries to pull him down hard. When that fails to work, he tries to buck again, to take pleasure in working himself to frenzy. But Regis pushes him down again, inevitable and heavy as a mill wheel grinding grain while the man pins him to the bed until Geralt can't so much as squirm.

"Oh, you fucking bastard," Geralt spits, but his curses are quickly smothered by Regis' smirking mouth and questing tongue against his teeth. He can feel Regis’ hardness rubbing against him every time he moves, and that finally gives Geralt the brainpower to reach out and grip him, hard. 

Surprisingly, Regis doesn’t bat him away. Instead he releases a long, low moan against Geralt’s lips and levers himself up. He plants both hands on Geralt’s shoulders to brace himself, finally freeing Geralt from the pin; slams down hard onto his hips, then up into Geralt’s hand at a frenetic pace. 

Geralt starts to pant trying to keep up, all his attention split between the jerking twist of his hand, his hips driving his cock to seek out just the right angle, his eyes fastened on the building ecstasy he can see in Regis’ face. Geralt wants to see him, wants to know that it was _him_ that brought him to these heights. Wants to see Regis shatter in his hands.

That rumble through him again, rattling his teeth. Regis cries out, ragged and loud, claws pricking against Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt feels the cock in his hand pulse and looks down in time to see white spatter across his chest as Regis moans above him. He strokes him through it, hips slowing even as instinct tells him to speed, to take what he needs.

Regis lets himself fall forward, lips against his but not quite kissing. “Keep going, I want to see you,” he murmurs into Geralt’s mouth. Geralt keens, biting at Regis’ thin lips, but obeys. 

He thrusts up, Regis letting Geralt move him this time when he grabs his ass with both hands and yanks him down into a fast rhythm.

Regis’ weight on his chest has him gasping, closer to the edge with every small noise the vampire makes. His thrusts start to turn clumsy, his concentration shot. 

Then Regis turns his cheek, presses a firm, fangless kiss against the wound where Orianna bled him. The resulting spike of pain and pleasure is enough to send him careening over the edge, jerking and grinding their hips together as Geralt comes, muffling his shout into Regis’ neck.

For a moment there is no sound but their ragged breaths, Geralt’s pulse thundering in his ears. He wraps his arms over Regis’ waist and shoulders, holding him close and luxuriating in their mingled sweat and semen, the warmth of his softening cock still inside. Eventually he slips out, and the resulting dribble of warmth down his thigh is enough to make him chuckle. 

Geralt turns his head to press a rasping kiss just below Regis’ ear. 

“I love you, too.” He revels in the hitch of the vampire’s breath, how his whole body tenses in an attempt to hold Geralt closer, but Regis says nothing.

Soon, he’ll have to get the wash basin and get them both clean before they get too disgusting. 

Until then, Geralt just laughs again, holding on to Regis even tighter and feeling content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment, or find me [on tumblr](https://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> [for this prompt meme](https://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/post/184357185407/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you)


End file.
